His final meal
by The Fereldan
Summary: Alistair awaits his execution. One-shot. Unbeta'd, like everything I write.


_Anora is right. Sorry, Alistair._

The words had fallen like stones. He had only been able to stare back at his fellow warden numbly as the guards dragged him away on Anora's orders. Now here he sat, in a dingy, cold cell in the palace dungeon, awaiting his execution.

_How could she do this to me?_ Alistair thought desperately. Was it really all a lie? Did she ever even care about him? He thought she loved him. He certainly loved her. Even now, as he sat in his cell, he found himself longing for her touch, needing to be held in her arms and told that everything was going to be ok, as she had often done during their travels when things got hard. Yet she would not be comforting him tonight, for it was she who had betrayed him. Even after all they had been through together, even after he had made love to her under the stars at camp, she was willing to let him die, when just a few words would have likely spared him. He had seen the rogue persuade people into doing things all the time, yet in his hour of need she said nothing in his defense. He gave her everything, his trust, his unwavering loyalty, his virginity. And she tossed it aside in an instant, in favor of Anora's support. It was true; Anora was the smart choice for a ruler, she had already proven herself capable of running the country alone. And besides, he didn't even want the throne in the first place. But he never thought it would end this way. He began to sob softly as the reality of the situation sunk in. _I have been betrayed by the one person I've ever loved. I'm going to die alone. My death will be at the hands of an executioner, like a criminal, in just a matter of hours. And no one is coming to my rescue. I have given everything of myself and earned a knife in my back for it._

He wondered if Arl Eamon had said anything to her after the landsmeet. Probably not. He certainly didn't say anything to stop Anora from sending him to his death. Typical. Eamon never called anyone out. He remembered when Eamon first brought Isolde to Redcliffe. Alistair had been happy for him; the Arl clearly loved his new bride a great deal. But when the woman had laid eyes on the scruffy-looking orphan, her displeasure was clear. And so he had been packed off to the chantry, on Isolde's whim and with Arl Eamon's silent blessing. As much as he respected the Arl for giving him a place to sleep and clothing to wear for as long as he did, he wasn't a father to him. He had no family at Redcliffe.

_Family_. Memories of Duncan and the Grey Wardens flooded his mind. They were the only family he'd ever known, despite being with the order only 6 months before they were all killed at Ostagar. _Ostagar_. That's when everything fell apart. _Why in the name of Andraste did Duncan sideline me like that? _Stupid question. He knew why. He was Maric's son, Fereldan's backup in case the worst should happen. Which of course, it did. Loghain left the king and all the grey wardens to die. He would have given anything to have been able to protect Duncan, to have been able to take the killing blow himself. Duncan would have called him foolish, the man was very close to his Calling, it would have been pointless for Alistair to trade his 30 years left of life for Duncan's 6 months to a year. But that's how he felt. It didn't matter anymore, anyway. He was going to die in a few hours.

"I brought you a meal, prisoner."

He jumped when he heard the guard speak. Hastily wiping the tears from his face, he turned to look at the guard. He could not see who the man was; he was dressed in veridium armor from head to toe and wearing a helmet that completely concealed his face. His voice was rough, yet kind. "Would you like something to eat, prisoner?" the guard repeated, holding out two bags in front of him, one containing mutton, the other containing bread. Alistair's stomach rumbled as the aroma of the meat reached him. He was _awfully_ hungry. But did he really want to eat food prepared in the palace, the home of the new queen who had ordered his execution? He sighed. "Anora wants to waste coin feeding me before I meet the Maker, does she?" he asked, his voice hard and dripping with venom.

"No, prisoner. Her majesty had no plans to give you anything; I went out and bought you some food on my break. I…I wanted to get you something. You looked rather hungry, lad."

"You'd spend your own coin to feed a condemned prisoner?" Alistair asked incredulously.

"A man shouldn't have to go hungry before he dies. Especially not a son of Maric."

Alistair's face softened. A kindred spirit. "T-thank you, ser. This means…more than I can say."

Alistair gratefully accepted the mutton and bread the guard handed him through the bars of his cell. "For what it's worth," the guard said softly, his voice quivering as if he was close to tears, "I was rooting for you, lad. I was deeply saddened by the outcome of the landsmeet. May you find yourself at the Maker's side." And with that, the guard left. Alistair was a bit sorry to see him go, he was wanting for company in this cold, quiet dungeon. He ate the meal in silence. The mutton in particular tasted really good to him; it had been awhile since he had had a good meal. Traveling on their mission to gather the armies, everyone had always been too exhausted to hunt or fish. Their meals had consisted of bread and whatever they scrounged along their travels.

As he finished eating, he heard the door of the dungeon open, and he could hear footsteps moving towards his cell. He looked up to see four guards standing outside his cell. He stood up. It was time to go.

"Are you ready, prisoner?" one of the guards asked.

"Yes."

Without a word, another guard unlocked the door to his cell and it swung open. As they escorted him to the gallows, he wondered if he would go to the maker's side when he died, like the chantry taught, or if that too, had been a lie. He would know soon enough.


End file.
